The Lie
by butterfly ghost
Summary: After Irene Zuko is shot, Benny looks after his friend, and Ray tells a lie.


For the longest time, they just sat there. Ray rested his head back against the wall, with his eyes shut, staring at the empty spaces in his skull. Think. He couldn't think. Didn't want to.

When he opened his eyes, Benny was still there, patiently waiting. "What do you want to do," he said at last.

Ray blinked, tried to contemplate a future. Even the next few moments were hard to envisage. He needed to get out of here, he realised, before a doctor came up to him, and decided to treat him for shock. He needed to get out but...

"I don't... I don't want to go home." The whisper which came out didn't sound like his voice. He imagined Ma, Frannie and Maria, fussing around him. Maria taking Tony off into a corner and ordering him to be supportive, Tony sitting uncomfortably on the couch, big hands hanging clumsily between his knees, trying to think of something to say. And the kids... He wasn't sure he could tolerate the noisiness of his home right now, or the overbearing sympathy of his family. Yeah. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and repeated himself, more clearly. "I don't want to go home."

"You can come back to my apartment," Benny offered. "I'll phone your family."

Ray wondered if they knew yet. Probably. He still couldn't meet Benny's eyes. Couldn't imagine looking at anyone again, but... "thanks," he said.

Benny's apartment was cold, as usual, and the snow was settling against the window in a deep drift. Dirty snow, Chicago snow, heaping up on the fire escape. Dief was curled up on the cot. Ray was too tired to complain about the cold, couldn't even see the point.

"Do you want anything to eat?" Benny hadn't said much so far, and it took Ray a moment to process the question. He looked at his hands, realised there was blood on them. Under the nails, crusting in the wrinkles of his knuckles.

"No," he said, blankly. "Not hungry." He sat on one of Benny's rickety chairs, and didn't look at his hands. Closed his eyes

When he opened them again, Benny was kneeling in front of him, with a bowl of steaming water, a wash cloth, and a bar of soap. Some distant part of him wanted to snap, 'what the hell d'you think you're doing,' but most of him was just bewildered. He sat and let Benny wash his hands, wipe blood off his face. His shoes even. God, he hadn't noticed the blood on his shoes.

"I'll just be a moment," Benny said, gently. Ray watched as he stepped out of the room, carrying the bowl of pink water. When he returned, the bowl, the soap, and the cloth were gone. Made sense. It wasn't like Benny could ever use them again. "What do you need," he asked.

What did he need? He needed Irene not to be dead, for it not to be his fault. He needed a world where Frank Zuko hadn't grown up into the monster he'd become. He needed a world where a man couldn't shoot someone he loved by accident. A world without loss. A world without pain.

Into the long silence Benny sighed. "Dief," he said, and shooed the reluctant wolf from his resting place. He put an arm around Ray's shoulder, stood him up, propelled him to the cot. "Lie down, Ray," he said, and although Benny bossing him about like that would normally have annoyed him, he just didn't have an ounce of pride left in him. He allowed himself to be led, allowed himself to be settled on the edge of the mattress. Allowed Benny to take his shoes off, and lay him down. Allowed himself to close his eyes. He felt the blankets being pulled over him, and, for a moment, Benny's hand on his face.

Maybe an hour later, he opened his eyes, and Benny was in his shirtsleeves, standing in the grotty little corner that he called a kitchen, chopping vegetables. He had his back to him, and Ray thought again about the little piece of metal nestling against his spine. Remembered everything. How he had cleaned his gun that morning, filled the chamber. They could do amazing things with forensics these days. If they ever did get the thing out, his fingerprints would be all over it. He thought of Frank Zuko, less lucky than himself, and wondered how the man would be able to bear it, for the rest of his life, that he had shot his sister. Killed her. He never thought he'd pity Zuko, but he did. Irene was dead. He had no pity for himself.

Irene was dead, but Benny wasn't. A rush of gratitude came over him, so sudden that it hurt. He sat up. Benny wasn't dead.

"Hey," he said, and his voice was rusty, as though he hadn't spoken for years. Benny turned, offered a tentative smile.

"Ray?" There was a question in his eyes.

"It's okay," he lied. "I'm fine. Thanks for letting me crash."

"Any time."

"Let me help you with that," he said, and joined Benny in the kitchen, started chopping onions. Shoulder nudged him so he moved down the counter and gave him room. Every movement a lie, an attempt to say 'don't worry,' an attempt to reassure his friend.

"Thanks," said Benny, and Ray blinked back tears.

"It's nothing," he said, "just the onions."

Benny nodded, like he believed him, and scraped the vegetables onto the pan.


End file.
